Broken Hearts, Broken Noses
by MiraMizu15
Summary: Fifteen years hasn't been long enough to get Antonio and Lovino to realize their feelings for each other. After a couple of hurtful mistakes, it's going to take a little drinking, a little pining, and a little pretty persuading to get their asses moving in the right direction. Good thing Antonio knows how to get to Lovino's apartment.


**::A/N:: I do not own hetalia or the icon image. **

**This is a Valentine's fill for Molly on Tumblr~**

**Features fem!Spamano, too!**

* * *

"Toni?" Lovino calls, shutting his friend's front door behind him. "Oi, bastardo? Did you get my text? I said I was coming over, so you can't fucking complain." Technically, there's something wrong with this statement, but Lovino doesn't contemplate it. He figures if he spends time thinking about every fucking thing he says, he just won't be able to speak at all. And maybe there's something wrong with that too.

Lovino receives no answer to his summons, but decides to wait the other man out.

He lays a cornucopian bag of groceries on the kitchen counter that is not his own, but might as well be, brushing aside yesterday's newspaper in the process. He blinks. Antonio, although idiotic, never keeps yesterday's newspaper lying around. "Did you not come home last night, bastard?" Lovino mutters, throwing the paper on the dining table.

He begins unloading groceries to blow time, stowing them in the refrigerator to keep them fresh until the master of the kitchen comes home. Antonio is never out for long without at least sending Lovino an inane text, so, Lovino believes he only has a matter of minutes before he hears word, however nonsensical and annoying.

Eventually, the counter is once again empty, the paper bag crumpled in the recycle, and Lovino is now well into a quarter of an hour of boredom. He finally acknowledges that this is odd. Antonio has made plans for today and he fucks up plans with Lovino once in a blue moon, even at the expense of showing up to fancy dinner reservations soaking wet and sandy.

Yet on Friday evening, at 5 o'clock, Lovino finds himself reading yesterday's paper alone.

"Fuck," Lovino grumbles, letting RECORD TEMPERATURES IN THE SOUTH join the abandoned paper shopping bag in the bin. He takes a minute to think. There is nothing he is missing, no joint plans with Veneziano he is forgetting. He pulls out his phone, and dials the well-worn number, but in response only gets the tinny ring-tone issuing from somewhere to his left. Brilliant, the idiot forgot his phone.

Frustrated now, Lovino double checks for last minute Lovi-I'm-sorry-I-forgot-my-phone-but-look-this-nice-Señora-lent-me-hers-I'm-almost-home texts from Antonio (because he's gotten those enough times to know the exact window he has before he ought to start worrying). But nothing, and Lovino can't think of any appropriate reason for the bastard to be vacant from _his own house_ when this date had been specifically set aside for _weeks _now. Their jobs are vicious consumers of their lives.

He keeps the cell phone out, but instead selects a different contact.

"Oui? Qu'est-ce que c'est?" utters a smooth, silky-deep baritone.

"It's Lovino, bastard."

"Lovino! Mon petit cher! What can I do for your incredibly sexy-,"

"Argh, no, shut up! I need to ask you something."

"So cold. But my services are willing to cater."

Lovino winces, rubbing his forehead. "Great. Is Tonio totally smashed over at your place?"

"Non. He said he had plans with you today, so he went home early last night."

A tiny stone sinks into the pit of the Italian's stomach. "What about with the potato?"

"Gilbert? No, he's with Liza for a long weekend. I've been so very lonely-,"

"Thanks, bye, call me if he calls." Lovino brusquely hangs up the phone. "Dammit! What the hell, bastard?" he yells at the painfully empty house. He's just a little nervous and a lot irritated.

In the end, Lovino waits for exactly one hour and fifty-nine minutes. Antonio doesn't show up.

Six hours later, however, as the clock strikes one in the wee morning, the true owner of the house stumbles up his front steps with a roaring headache and a heavy heart. He makes to unlock the door, but finds it already open. He sees the newspaper in the recycle and the food in the fridge and feels even worse.

He hadn't wanted tonight to go this way.

* * *

_**[Friday, 5:05 PM, from Anita C]**__ hey wanna c u again ;)_

It's just a text, and it's not like Lovino hasn't received hundreds of the same, but for once, he's seriously considering it.

He wasn't expecting this girl to seek him out, not really. They never do after the first couple times. He prefers it that way. They don't mean anything to him. Flirting, hitting if off with women, that's his specialty. Not his preference, but his specialty. He always found that fact a rather ironic ploy from God.

No, he would much rather his phone be sending him poorly written comments from Antonio, who still hasn't called him to apologize about last week.

Lovino might have spent the first couple of days worrying that Tonio had actually been rotting upstairs, literally dead to the world, but that fantasy was dashed to the wind when they saw each other in the grocery store the following Tuesday. For the first time in their years of knowing one another, it had been _Antonio_ who had turned tail and disappeared at the sight of him. And Lovino couldn't fathom why.

Indeed, such a reaction had only made Lovino realize just how aware Antonio was of his actions. And to top it off, the less than pleasant thought, "Antonio must have eaten that food I left, or else he would have shopped earlier than Tuesday", was only curdling Lovino's stomach. Antonio's grocery day was always Sunday, and Lovino usually accompanied him. So, fuck it, Antonio had not only eaten his damned food, but was avoiding him too.

That pissed Lovino off. Frankly, it was his job to lead Antonio around the fucking obstacle course. He was supposed to bitch, and avoid, and say one thing while meaning another. Not Antonio. _Him_.

He stares once more at the text message. "Want to see you" sounds pretty good right now.

He responds.

_**[Friday, 5:21 PM]**__ Let's make it tonight. Spades at 7?_

He doesn't have to wait long.

_**[Friday, 5:26 PM]**__ i'll b there!_

* * *

Two drinks in and he already has this girl in the palm of his hand in the dark of an alley. He can't remember her name, can't pick her out of a crowd, can't recall one thing about her personal life, but hell, he can appreciate the way she moves her lips when words _aren't_ coming out. His palms slam into the brick wall over her head, and she breaks for air, grinning.

"Wow, Lovino-"

He doesn't care to hear any more of her incessant chatter, so he dives back in, pushing her long brown hair from her mouth.

She responds, like he knew she would, easily. It's so easy, it's fake. Breaking for air, he examines her appearance: brown hair, green eyes, tan skin, bright smile. 'Good God,' Lovino thinks, 'it's a fucking affliction.'

"Want to get another drink, Lovi?"

"Don't call me that," he mutters, too quietly for her to hear. "Yeah, sure."

"Great! This is so much fun-,"

He pushes back from the wall, and they find their way into the club, his date keeping up a dialogue about absolutely nothing, as far as Lovino can tell. He considers himself an expert in the field.

Amazingly, their vacated table is just the way they left it, opportunely placed at the corner farthest from the wide open floor. Lovino gets the girl's attention, and they skirt the edge of the room, slipping through the pressing mob of slightly-too-drunk dancers. Five feet from the table, though, she's still talking, which is ridiculous because Lovino can't even hear his own mental directions let alone his own voice. He looks resolutely at the floor, until he feels her tapping on his shoulder. He snaps around and raises an eyebrow, knowing vocalization will be pointless. She seems to have realized it as well, for she gestures nervously towards the table they are approaching.

Lovino looks, and wishes he hadn't. For a moment, he considers turning and running, leaving both the girl and this terrible hand from God behind… but he doesn't. He strides quickly towards the usurper of their table, and punches him in the shoulder to achieve his attention.

Antonio looks up, confused, and Lovino curses internally. Of course this would happen. Goddamn.

He bends close to Antonio's ear to be heard over the pounding synthesized beat.

"GET THE FUCKING HELL UP."

"WHY? YOU… YOU SHOULD JOIN ME!"

Antonio clearly hasn't seen his date. Lovino grimaces before pointing at her, then at his own chest, trying to insinuate that the Spaniard's kind of in the way. This is the last fucking table, his glare says, so get up and leave us alone.

Antonio's eyes widen upon seeing the girl behind Lovino. In a strange epiphany, her name finally comes to him. Anita. Why did Antonio spark that? Fuck.

Lovino jerks his thumb to the bar. Antonio's already-shadowed eyes dim and he nods, getting up, smiling weakly at Anita. Lovino sighs, suddenly drained. He's not sure how much longer he can stand Anita's presence.

They order drinks, fruity cocktail shit that Lovino secretly loves. She continues trying to hold up a conversation, while Lovino continues to use the loud dubstep as an excuse not to answer. She gradually falls silent, becoming less animated, less excited, and Lovino feels bad. Her shoulders slump a little, her mouth is downturned, and fuck, Lovino has too much experience with people like this to let them dally in such an alien personality for long.

"Mi dispiace, Anita," he says, touching her hand across the table and pulling out all the Italian stops, thanking God as a quiet, slow song replaces the fist pumping bass from a moment before. "I know this isn't going too well."

She shrugs as a ghost of her former grin returns. "That's okay, Lovi. I think I get it."

He shakes his head, fingering his watch on the wrist of the hand clutched tightly around his drink. "I doubt it. No offense, but I don't even get it, and well…" He's not trying to insult her intelligence, but it comes out that way.

She just laughs it off. "You're getting over someone, right? I just hope that I've made you forget them for a little while."

He blinks, nonplussed. "Getting over someone?" No… that isn't right. He hasn't had a real relationship in years. The only relationships he can lay claim to are the ones he has with his brother and with Antonio, both of which are completely platonic and kind of strained.

Incredibly, she seems to reach a cosmic understanding from Lovino's confusion. Her hand comes to rest comfortingly on his shoulder as she jerks her head towards the bar. Lovino follows the invisible line drawn by her startling green eyes, and finds himself face to back with Antonio. The man looks absolutely miserable and utterly lost in his own world. A young looker in a dress shirt tries to approach him and strike up a conversation, discreetly unbuttoning his top three buttons when Antonio isn't looking. Lovino growls. 'Stupid fuck,' he thinks, but he isn't sure if he's referring to Antonio or the man whore.

"Did you two just split? I saw the way he was looking at you when you showed up. This must be so hard for you, Lovi. Do you want to leave?"

Lovino nods, not really sure what she's on about, confused as to why she thinks Antonio and him even know each other. Their exchange hadn't been painfully obvious, had it? To Lovino, it had just been painful. Why does it feel like fifteen years of friendship are sliding away?

When Anita tries to pay for her drink, Lovino snaps out of his thoughts. No way is she paying for that after being so damn understanding and kind. He gently pushes her hand away and takes out his own wallet, throwing a ten on the table. She puts the money back in her purse and kisses him on the cheek. "Let's go?"

"Yeah, let's go." He proffers his arm to her, and she takes it, giggling at his chivalry. He just flashes a tiny smile in return and leads her outside into the night.

She pinches the fat of his wrist and smiles. "Thank you for such a wonderful time, Lovi."

"Wonderful time?" he splutters. "I paid piss poor attention to you, and then we had to cut things short."

"No, it was fun! Maybe we can be friends," she suggests, suddenly looking a little shamefaced. "I actually wasn't super honest with you either…"

"Okay…?"

"I'm kind of into someone, too, but I don't think she likes me back. She's a lot like you, actually, which is why I thought maybe this could work…, but you remind me too much of her, Lovi. Her name's Chiara. She works here, and I was hoping this would make her jealous." Anita looks like she wants to kick herself.

Lovino snorts into his palm, and tries to pull it off as a cough. "Well… that makes things less awkward, I guess? Maybe more awkward… I don't know. I hope things work out for you two."

"Gracias!" Anita beams, pulling her shall from her purse, as they stand in the club's parking lot. "I'm starting to think that I just need to say something to her. I'm the only one who can ever reveal my feelings, you know."

Lovino thinks that this woman is so entirely unique, anyone would be lucky to have her. He tells her as much, and offers to put the shawl around her shoulders. Anita's blush is worth it, and Lovino only hopes the night wasn't too miserable for her. And maybe he hopes something will come out of at least one of their pathetic loves lives. "Good night."

Anita settles comfortably in her car after Lovino opens the sedan door, and she rolls down the window for a final farewell. "Good night! Maybe we can all go on a double date sometime! Me and Chiara, you and that man!"

Lovino's cheeks are on fire as Anita pulls out of the parking lot and onto the busy street.

* * *

Antonio tries. He really does. 'Lovino can go on as many dates as he wants,' Antonio reasons. He's his own person. That woman looks very kind. Lovino deserves happiness.

But he can't help sneaking glances over his shoulder at the couple every so often. The first time Lovino seems to just be awkwardly avoiding small talk. The second time both young people are sullenly silent. Those two glances are worth it, and Antonio's hope is reanimated. But the third look does him in. They appear like they're talking about something deep and meaningful… and is she touching Lovino's hand?

Antonio pulls a face and orders more beer. Beer, he finds, is always better for getting smashed in public. Wine is for misery he deals with in his own home. The expensive alcohol always feels more intimate to Antonio, more private and better-suited for his angst and brooding. He's always been an atmosphere guy.

He pops the cap on his beer, feeling completely exposed and upset and not at all in private, especially when the annoying guy beside him keeps trying to talk about 1970s cars. Antonio doesn't like cars. Lovino likes cars.

The man finally seems to get the hint that Antonio isn't interested, which comes as both a relief and a curse. Now there is no one to block his view of Lovino's date.

He tries. He really does. But when he looks to _that_ table and sees an angry young waitress cleaning up – harder than necessary, Antonio thinks, she could scrub the shine right off the wood – Antonio can't stand it anymore. They've left. They're probably having sex in Lovino's apartment; they're probably fucking each other on the counter, the floor, the couch, Lovino's bed. Antonio moans, and drops his forehead to the grimy bar. When he picks it up, ready to call the night quits and just go have that private wine in his apartment, he comes face to face with the angry waitress. And boy does she look even scarier up close.

"Uh... can I help you, miss?" Antonio asks, hoping she'll just walk away. She can't possibly want to talk to him (he's not sure he can even stand another human at this point), and even if she does, there are no seats at the bar for her to take.

"Yes, you can fucking help me," she snarls, glancing disdainfully at the sleeping man to Antonio's left. With one quick movement, she shoves him off the stool and onto the floor. Antonio's not surprised when he doesn't wake up. He's had a lot to drink.

He tries to sit up straighter. "So-,"

"You're friends with that stupid pompous douche who just left, right?" the woman asks, brown hair swinging to the left as she hops onto the recently vacated stool.

Antonio blinks. No, he didn't think he had any friends like that… well maybe that sounded like Lovino's neighbor, Arthur, but somehow, Antonio doesn't think Alfred would let Arthur come within six feet of a bar, and they aren't really friends, so. "Can you describe his appearance?"

She shoots him a look that says he is the stupidest thing she's ever seen before pointing accusatorily at the table she just wiped down. A new couple has settled there. "That guy. The one with the stupid curl who was all over Anita."

"Who's Anita?" Antonio questions, wondering dismally if that's the girl Lovino had on his date.

"Good God, you're just like her, aren't you? The asshole Italian guy, that's who. The one with the woman who looks like you. I saw you checking him out like some rejected high schooler. Come on, idiota. You must know him."

"Oh, he's my friend. Was Anita his date?"

"Yes." The waitress falls silent, glaring moodily at the countertop. When she starts picking at speck of gum instead of finishing their conversation, Antonio becomes confused.

"Did you need something else, Señorita?"

Her face deepens to such an adorable shade of red that Antonio is reminded staggeringly of Lovino. "I- look here, douche, my name isn't, 'Señorita', okay? It's Chiara. Fucking remember that, if you're not already shit-faced."

He grins despite himself. "I've only had one beer."

"Fan-fucking-tastic. Have a gold star too. Now… do you know if those two, my friend and your friend, are serious? I just… I've never seen that guy around Anita before today."

Antonio shrugs despondently. "I don't know, I'm about as miserable as you are. Unlike you, though, I think I messed things up pretty badly with my friend."

"Tch, who says I'm miserable? Anita can date whoever the fuck she wants, even if it is a dickwad bastard."

"Lovino."

"What?"

"Lovino," Antonio repeats. "That's his name." He doesn't bother correcting the dickwad bastard part; it's a tiny bit true.

Chiara snorts. "I really don't care."

"Well, I know Anita's name now, so it only seemed fair."

"Life isn't fair," Chiara growls, slamming her fist onto the bar. The action seems to mean just a little bit more than a contradictory jab. "Dammit, I just- Never mind. I'll call her later, I guess. Thanks, even if you weren't an ounce of help."

Antonio waves, glad she's leaving.

"Oh, and grow a pair of balls. Those two are probably fucking in his apartment as we speak. I think you should stop them before the relationship gets any worse." Chiara scowls, eyes flicking away from Antonio's bemused face. "… I just really think that's a good fucking plan, and maybe you won't be the only one benefiting from it, yeah?"

Antonio's eyes widen. "You love that Anita lady."

Chiara sighs, looking resigned to the truth. "Maybe, okay? I just know I hate your Lovino."

Antonio grins. He likes the sound of "his Lovino". "Good luck, Señorita."

"Fuck you."

Antonio watches as the waitress disappears back into the crowd, and a little bit of his heart goes with her. It wishes her luck.

* * *

Lovino unlocks his flat with a flourish and drops the keys into a rather hideous ceramic bowl by the door. It's a routine he's practiced every day since he bought the place.

His phone is still sporting no new messages when he sets it on the kitchen table, or when he comes out of the bathroom, water dripping from his hair, skin clean from a much-needed shower. Lovino's getting seriously pissed, and he partially blames this blip in the cosmos on his (expensive) blip of a cell. Instead of taking it with him to the couch to get some extra work done while watching television, he makes his way to the sofa empty handed. He sits in silence, staring moodily at a chipped bit of paint marring his _sunset orange_ walls. He pulls a face, realizing his weekend just got busy, that a paint job is in order, has been since he bought the place actually.

'_Maybe I'll ask Toni to come help… and pick up the paint on his way over. He'll clear his schedule for me- Wait.' _Lovino realizes his mistake with the resigned cool of a man who has never had many friends. Its past heart-breaking at this point and more along the lines of expected. But Antonio means a lot to him… a lot more than a best friend should. Or maybe Lovino has nothing to judge by because has no friends _but _Antonio. Well, he acknowledges no friends but Antonio. He can count several people who would very much like to be friends with Lovino and Little Lovino and Lovino's Sweet Ass.

Well, there's Belle and several others who might meet the dictionary definition of "pals", but screw that. Antonio is that one guy he always goes to no matter what… at least until recently.

Sometimes, Lovino feels too uncomfortable to talk to Antonio about things. In such cases, he goes to Belle instead, vents to her about this and that, about him and him and Antonio, about why the sky is blue, why the grass is green, and why his cheeks get so damn red when Antonio looks at him a certain way. Belle seems to have all the answers (maybe it's a girl-thing), even if they make no sense to Lovino. An answer in any form is his friend, he finds, and he tells himself that if he stays up late enough, creates enough ambiance, blasts the music loud enough, he'll reach an epiphany and suddenly understand every word Belle has ever been trying to tell him. But understanding still hasn't presented itself, shining at his door.

Recently, his need has only been stronger as Friday dinners with Antonio take a turn for the cringing, and the time they spend together feels less and less like two guys crashing on the sofa and steadily more like two bumbling teenagers on their first date. Only now they've tripped through at least seven "first dates" and it makes Lovino want to bash out his brains. In an inability to communicate, a relationship falls apart.

In all honesty, this whole mess might be Lovino's fault. So what if he had cancelled one or two or three of the plans Antonio had tried to set up between his two jobs (free-lance photography and part-time teaching)? Lovino had been afraid, afraid of losing their relationship to the feelings ripping at his heart.

And so he was no stranger to all the excuses in the book: dentist appointment, work meeting, cat vomiting, brother out on Amber Alert. But no matter what Lovino said he was doing, he always slunk away to Belle's until the hour grew too late for Antonio to keep calling him.

Lovino is a man who knows he has bad luck, so he is surprised that his ploys carried on without hitch for as long as they did.

But Fate's generosity eventually and inevitably came to an awkward end. As the cards played out, not only did Lovino know Belle and her older brother Daan, but Antonio did too. Very well, in fact. So charmingly well, Lovino had to question why they hadn't run into each other there before.

To recount the dismal tale, Lovino had been flopped out on Belle's couch, legs thrown over her lap, Daan glaring tangible daggers from the wicker chair across the room, and some ridiculous soap had been on that Belle was crying over. The doorbell had gone off, tinny chimes filling the apartment and cutting through Belle's sniffling. She had demanded Daan answer it, caught up as she was in the drama on screen and Lovino being terribly busy at work on his phone. Lovino recalled hearing a brief conversation and a cheery Spanish greeting before the memory faded into a lot of awkward hurt he didn't like to dwell on.

That was around the time Antonio had stopped the unrequited plan making. Lovino still thinks he has the liberty to be pissed, however. Since then, he went out of his guilt-laden way to plan that dinner Antonio had ultimately never shown up for; he had hoped to create an apology without words because he would be damned if they fell apart over a little cardiac arrest and blood-to-the-face syndrome. But clearly, that plan had gone up in spectacular flames. A real pretty pyre, if Lovino contemplated it.

But he doesn't like to contemplate it. And he's starting to get a nasty inclination about the nature of his particular ailment. His fluttery chest, red-faced, mushy-gushy love- Yeah, okay, so what if he knows the _exact _nature of his stupid ailment? Life hasn't ever denied him denial before. Though now denial is steadily feeling like an emotional Berlin Wall that's doing a really good job of keeping Antonio on the other side, which is productively detrimental.

Maybe love can't be flushed down the toilet with one too many beers, or drowned out with the vibrating and stirring tones of Italian opera. Maybe it's something Lovino knows he has to face, but can't, because honestly he's never felt this shit before. He knows what it's supposed to be, knows how it's supposed to feel… but he still can't really believe that the fireworks erupting in his pericardium every time Antonio does that dopey smile aren't mortal threats in disguise.

It feels like he and Antonio can never have their happy ending because what are the chances of it?

And that. That is really why he began cancelling plans. That is really why Belle's flat became an adult hide out in a children's game of hide and seek. He doubted in the great love machine, and now, Antonio isn't seeking anymore, and Lovino can't let the game fall apart. Because really, it's just the two of them, always has been, and they have the only hands in their future. Lovino is going to say what he has always feared, Lovino is going to admit to being in love.

He jumps to his feet, hazel eyes enlightened. He needs to act; he's being consumed by the desire to take the offensive. He stumbles forward.

He makes it down the hallway in four determined strides, right hand groping carelessly for his keys, left trying to tug down his jacket from the hook on the wall. He is going to confront Antonio about whatever the hell this is, and then he's going to kiss him and hope the stars align.

And his wish must be strong – is strong – because they align just a little too fast, and his flat door is suddenly opening inward, right on target with his nose. The force of it sends him toppling backwards, hand still clutching the rim of the hideous ceramic bowl.

Shit.

* * *

Antonio is a safe driver. He usually likes feeling the part of the upstanding citizen, stopping for the little old ladies and the kids. He maintains the gas pedal at the speed limit and not a mile over, taking heart when his rude drivers-in-arms get pulled off the road. He drives slowly in the rain, slow in the snow, slow in the fog, slow in the sun because really, one wrong turn could cause a pile up. 30,000 deaths are car-related. Or at least, that's what the brochures say.

But tonight, Antonio doesn't even have his seatbelt on. He runs a red light, gets honked at, and nearly gives an old lady cardiac arrest (which he does feel very bad about, he pulled over and apologized) all while driving drunk. To put mozzarella on spaghetti, he's forced to make an illegal U-turn because he misses Lovino's street in his agitation. He feels like a hooligan when he finally finds a parking space, like he should be burning down a village somewhere.

It makes him sick, but not as sick as the thought of Lovino in his apartment making passionate love to Chiara's friend, Anita, who just isn't so evil and unnamed any more which is really making it hard to dislike her.

He doesn't have the patience to wait for the elevator even though he presses the button, and he doesn't reply to Lovino's nice younger neighbor Lily or foul Arthur as he runs towards the stairs. He's just too agitated, too excited, and running up the stairs three at a time.

He's been in Lovino's building so often, he doesn't even need to look to know when to avoid the vending machine jutting out at an odd angle, or the bit of rug that's come up because of the little kids that drive their plastic dump trucks in the hall. He can run through with his eyes closed which is a skill that's really coming in handy as he can hardly see, blinded as he is by emotions that are too big.

Maybe he likes Lovino. Really likes him. He's known it for a while, stewed on it, drank to it (glasses and bottles of toasts), and been most unpleasant because of it. Fifteen years Antonio's been friends with Lovino.

He watched the kid get stitches, watched him cry, saw him graduate middle school and high school and college and graduate school. He was at Feliciano's wedding, Lovino was at Porty's; they never had two lives, they always had one. Every favorite memory has Lovino in it because Lovino is _the _favorite memory.

Antonio loves him.

His fingers wrap around Lovino's door knob, and it's something blessedly solid in this dangerous sea of intangible thoughts and feelings. He almost cries for joy when it's unlocked.

But then he hits something hard on the other side, by the sound of the pained grunt and the explosive crash.

"Lovi!?" He's around the door in seconds, quickly snapping it closed to clear the area. "I'm sorry! Are you okay? Good grief is that my mom's bowl? You're bleeding! I'm just going to grab a paper towel." He does so rapidly, for once remembering that they're over the microwave and not under the sink.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Lovino mutters, meandering into the kitchen with a hand pressed to his bleeding face. "You ruined your mom's bowl."

Antonio shrugs, passing over the paper towels, suddenly not quite sure how to work in something as sensitive and earth-shattering as, 'I love you. Please don't break my heart like I broke your nose.'

Lovino grunts thanks.

"The bowl was kind of ugly anyway," Antonio offers, twitchy and needing to help, to heal, to love.

"It was hideous, but your mom would've skinned me if I'd thrown it out." He dabs at his nose, white coming away a bright red. "So why the hell are you here anyway?"

And then it strikes Antonio just how quiet the house is. "Where's Anita?"

"For the love of God," Lovino blinks, looking utterly confused. "How the hell do you know her name? And why does it matter?"

"Because you're not having sex on the counters."

"What."

He might as well just come out with the whole thing. Antonio suddenly wishes he'd practiced in the car, or asked that old lady for advice. She would have known. "Well… so I was at the club, you saw me there." Lovino nods, wiping at his face without really paying attention. "After you two left this girl came up to me and was asking about you, and she was talking about how she was in love with Anita and how I should come here and break you guys up!"

Lovino looks livid. "What the fuck! You were going to come here and ruin my night for some bitch you met moping at the bar?!"

Antonio sees the need to backtrack. "No, no, no!"

"Then what?" he growls, voice nasally from the blood running down his upper lip and into the obtrusive paper towel.

"I- Well I would be benefitting too, you see?" Antonio asks tentatively, minutely shrugging.

"No, I don't see. Planning on getting laid by lesbians?"

It's one of those things Lovino says that spins Antonio's head around, especially because he sounds bitter and sad _and _sarcastic. "I- what? No! No, I didn't want sex from Anita or Chiara or anyone but you!" Wait. "I love you!" he amends. "I don't just want sex or anything! I mean I want a relationship that _has_ sex but it's because I really like you not because I want to take advantage of you." Antonio takes a deep breath, wondering if Lovino's silence is good or bad. "Things have been changing lately, and I didn't know how to accept it because I loved the way we were, but now I think I'm ready to try loving something new. So I know I've been a douche, but I realize now that my love for you was making our friendship fall apart."

Lovino stares at him, clearly floored. Antonio fidgets, picking at a thread on his shirt, hoping that maybe things can be salvaged now. Because what would he do without Lovino? What is there without this?

"Seriously?"

Antonio stumbles over assurances, but Lovino waves him down.

"No, I mean seriously I was about to come to your house and tell you the same thing. You stole my thunder, bastard." Even covered in bloodstains, Antonio only has eyes for Lovino's rare smile, a grin that cracks his face. So handsome. "Iloveyou," Lovino adds with a cough.

The turmoil in Antonio's stomach ceases and is replaced by a spitting fire of disbelieving happiness. "You do? You do! You love me! Things are okay!" He sweeps Lovino into a spine-snapping hug, the kind Antonio knows he hates. "I had no idea if you were going to get angry or not."

Lovino snaps his spine in return.

"You love me!" Antonio says again, tasting it and rolling it between his teeth. "I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you so much. I have for fifteen years. But now it's the kind of love that wants to live with you and have sex with you and I can't believe this. I was so nervous on the drive over that I forgot to wear my seatbelt."

Lovino blinks and grins, affection palpable in the twitch of his eye and the sweep of his tongue that preludes something better. He grabs Antonio's nape and pulls him forward, meeting him for a bruising metallic kiss, the effects of which tingle all the way down to their curling toes.

"I'm glad you said it first, bastard," Lovino finally pants, separating their faces by the smallest sliver of space.

"I'm glad you said it back."

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